[Jesus, his eyes wet, his right hand knee-jerking to his back where his second pistol rests tucked into his pant's belt. He wavers his pistol hand inches close to his gun]

You should try and not take the Lord's name in vain so often, cousin.

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/10/09 00:41

By: carol

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Go fuck yourself, Jesus.

[Carol has the current capital laid out on the cherrywood's desktop, and she's giving it the old once over. Her eyes squint and her lips curl like Elvis. She drums her fingertips on the desktop, and she juts her jaw to the left, and then she giggles softly. She examines the current capital...]

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/10/09 01:06

By: Jesus

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[Jesus cozies up close to the cherrywood, going all fetus, his boots curled up close to his ass, his wet eyes kneeling down close to his boots]

Jerry Lewis is dead. What's the point of moving forward. I'm tired.

[Jesus pulls the pistol from his belt and presses the trigger and blows the front of his skull to the back. He wilts to the glass tiles, dead]

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/10/09 01:16

By: carol

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[Carol shutters from the boom of the pistol shot. She looks over as Jesus takes the bullet, and she throws herself at him as if she can somehow prevent this. And she ends up on top of Christ, and she slams her fists into his chest, believing this might bring him back. She slams her fists onto his chest]

Oh, mother. Why, cocksucker. Why did you. Why did you.

[Carol pounds Jesus's chest, knowing and looking on his skull, which has been destroyed, and she pounds on his chest, and she pounds on his chest...

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/10/10 16:29

By: deplancher

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Posts: 1540

[DeP hears a lot of commotion from inside her steamy yellow bivouac. Sounds like a war zone. She wonders if Ted still carries that reset device Lalo once designed. What was it called? Maybe she dreamed that part. Maybe there is no reset device. Maybe there never was...]

The population diminishes. There's a toll, isn't there, Roger? I know you're out there. You and your warning mouth spewing syllables in languages only macaws understand. There's a toll and some of us, those without the armour designed by a dove, suffer the consequence. Read of death. Breathe death. Consider the many paths to death. Walk blind toward the call of death. Embrace it. Revel in it. Roll with it. Fornicate with it. Evaporate into it.

Resistance is necessary. But, oui, also futile. You will die and death will rise in place of you, resume where you left off. Chew your power to powder. Digest it then excrete it onto the floor in strategic places you cannot see in case you dare rise again so that you will slip and be mired, rendered as helpless as an armless swimmer. And death will beat you again.

Ah! Sage me. Read me Thich Nhat Hanh... [She grabs up the cap she's been reading before the wars erupted on the opposite end of The Floor. She flips through the pages, tosses the cap aside.] Desolé, mes tragic ones. I'm not the saviour..or is it savior? I've cap in the middle. Cap behind. I throw you a sack of medicine, fresh brewed here on my hotplate. Rinse away your blood. Hammer some furniture together. Use this gum to mend your hearts...yes, chiclets from the packet handed to VC Mariah Montoya.

Send her cap to the seaside. To The Terminal. Carry on. Death's Armchair By The Sea

Scene I. Set 7. Death prevails but Life returns for more.DePA Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancerof The Floor

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/10/11 00:52

By: carol

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[Carol wipes her tears and gazes over DePward. She watches DePlancher, wondering what she talks of. There is DePlancher, in her glorious garb, her very sexy dress, and she has her capital and her purring cat. Carol looks down at her boots. She stumbles over to the wardrobe]

Swishing ghosts swoop...

[Carol stoops and looks under the wardrobe. She sees no pistol. She backs off and steps to the wardrobe once again, and she traces her fingertip through the chunky meatloaf remains of Jesus's brain. She holds her fingertip up in front of her eyes]

The worst of us poop...

[Carol folds and ends up cuddled against the cherrywood, much as Jesus cuddled earlier. But Carol digs her heels in and ass-scoots herselself to the blinking colored (sorry, don't want to use the term colored, but hey, the individual tiles are hued diff fucking colors, and sometimes the delicate community just needs to cowboy the fuck up) tiles. Carol twirls]

My world.

[She reaches up and grabs some capital off the corner edge of the Cherrywood. She looks the first page up and down, and she scratches her crotch, shifts her panties a bit. Her eyes are wet, and she's shaking a little, mostly her shoulders and her knees]

My world now. I've got Jason Cornrer's The Day of the Expanding Man And I will examine this capital.

[Carol struggles to get to her boots, and she squeezes tears from her eyes, and tightens her lips so as to not emit any silly mourning huffs or spittings. She kicks the shrapnel that'd been the pilot's chair from her foot-space aback the cherrywood. She unfurls the current capital on the desktop, knocking over a Batman pez dispensor. She lowers her head. Her hand reaches out and locates the Bose remote. She thumbs in The Meters Just Kissed My Baby. And she puts her palms on the cherrywood's desktop, and she leans into them, twisting her hips, stretching her lower back. She firms up her lips and shakes her head, her hips going all metronome and she thumbs up the volume]

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/10/18 00:11

By: carol

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[She has her palms on the cherrywood's desktop, and she's thumbed in NWA's Greatest Hits, yo, and it's rolling, sans bleep. She grabs up the capital and she twists the paper, slightly angry]

Okay, this shit is so bad I want to find the VC and ask him/her "nigger, what is up," because this craze wind us all stupid, ha, I mean, I do love prose and the future of prose and I love old prose, but daaaaaaaaaamn.

[Carol twists the paper, and she lights it with a match struck off the side of the desktop]

Fuck this shit. Craft well, bitches. No reason not to, right? Corner's capital has been Portholed.

[She tosses the flaming capital to the mirrorball, and it flits and flaps...

[She throws the pages to the mirrorball, and the pages levitate for a few seconds, and then they begin to twirl, like kites at a really excellent kite show (which are awesome, and I know all of you know nothing about these awesome kite shows, but they are most excellent). And the pages rise into the rafters)

And this.

[Carol grabs up Bruce Golden's The Dola and the Saint, and she tosses it upward, mirrorballward]

Let the fuckers upstairs deal with it. S'been Terminaled.

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/11/09 01:32

By: carol

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[Carol steps gently to the front of the Cherrywood, and she gathers up Jesus's corpse in her arms, and she lifts it and dumps it onto the desktop. It wiggles a bit, and it settles, and then it jiggles slightly, and then it settles once more. Carol takes her coat off, and she shakes it out, flap, flap, flap. And she lays the coat over Jesus's corpse. And she breathes deep, and she lowers her head. She pulls out a matchbox, Swan Vestas, and she gets to one knee]

Dep. You got anything to say? Before we put Jesus down? Cause I'm 'bout to burn this fucker.

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/11/10 01:21

By: carol

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DePlancher?

[Carol curls up beneath this famous desk, this Cherrywood, and she rolls left to right, cradling the box of Swan Vesta matches on her belly]

I can't do this alone, cousin. This is Christ.

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/11/11 23:46

By: carol

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[Carol breathes deep, curled up beneath the Cherrywood. She breathes deep again. And then she gets to her feet and erupts]

Seriously? Really? Fuck this.

[She grabs up Jesus's corpse and walks over to DePlancher's desk]

You want to be all Miss Zen, all calm and collected and camp queen?

[She dumps Jesus on DePlancher's desktop, Jesus all rag doll, his skull breaking apart more as his death-time lengthens, his tongue slaps onto the desktop like a landed salmon]

We'll burn him on your desk!

[She pulls out the Swan Vestas, slides open the box, tweezers out a match, and she brings the stick up, ready to strike]

It's just you and me here, girl. We need to play nice. And by we I mean you, cousin. So what's say you, DePlancher?

[Carol places the red business end of the match against the strike strip on the side of the box, and she raises her left eyebrow]

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/11/14 18:52

By: tqr

Status: Admin

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Posts: 2857

Ahoy!

[the ridiculous signature of the emaciated blue hair appears as a faded non player character in the distant gloaming]

Safety is a priority. Evil Otto does not approve. Dot. Dot. Dot.

[upon closer inspection and better optics as he nears, the old fart is seen to be packing a rapier, which he holds before him like a sword, errrrr, like a candle in the darkest night...]

[Carol cocks one hip all sassy like the mean girl she used to aspire to be and pulls back the match from the rough strip]

Defend yourself, you old fool!

[So saying, the gallant gril, falsely accused, engages the old capital manager and his sad rapier with nary but her superior fencing skills and her match]

En guarde!

[Rorschalk defends the girl's banzai sallie with barely adequate ripostes and feints, being pushed back despite his obvious strategic advantage, overmatched in his swordplay by the reckoning of a well-wielded match]

Pray, n-auntie, still thy fervent attack upon my ancient bones lest we litter the floor with more brickabrack of selfish slaughter!

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/11/15 02:03

By: carol

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[Carol pushes the edge of the Swan Vesta against Rorchalk's shaggy throat]

[Carol grabs Jesus's corpse and throws it to the glass tiles. She climbs in close, hovers over dead Jesus-minus-face. From the backside of her belt Carol pulls out a Genesis 4-3/4 inch Control-Grip Compact saw, the cord trailing back behind the wardrobe. She hits the trigger on the saw, it goes all wild, revs. She hovers it over Jesus's elbow]

I will dismember this fucker.

[Carol shoves her fingers through her hair, getting it out of the way. She lowers the saw]

I can't do this. I mean, shit, I can do this, motherfucker.

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/11/16 15:12

By: johnVC

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[JohnVC and all the legions of earnest, frustrated venture capitalists possessing his collective body spider walk down the icy cinderblocks of the floor's north face, then reaching the floor, proceeds to take a more normal gait, albeit ponderous and shambling, toward the desperate scene where the bad girl is about to desecrate Jesus corpse and the CEO stands, chewing on his fingernails and thinking 'woe is me']

Hey doll,

You got a real good thing goin' here, see? I've sent you thousands of ventures over the years and you've satirized, maligned, poo poo'd and denigrated 99 percent of 'em! Whatsa VC motherfucker gotta do to get some respect round here, I say?

[the lights in his eyes go all LCD and it seems like some electric frisson is crackling at the boundary of his ecstatic cranium, when he speaks it is a disharmonic chorus of thousand in one]

Oww. Father, why have you forsaken me?! We are thristy, but you offer no wine!

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Re:wk 3.2

Date: 2018/11/18 02:03

By: carol

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Posts: 138

[Carol pauses, the saw rumbling in her fists. She turns and she walks up to the new guy. She revs the engine of the saws-all and thrusts it into the new guy's privates, and she revs it and lifts the rotating blade upward. The body flops apart, and Carol back steps, whipping her head to get the fresh blood off her eyelids]

I will fuck you all. Do not ever call me Doll!

[She whirls around, the saw winding down, her nose flared with breath, and she breathes, shakes the blood out of her hair. She stomps over to the corpse and she stomps on it with her boot heels. She gives a few good stomps with her heel because you never know when a corpse might rise. And, hello, we do not like zombies! right?]